The Devil She Knows by Diane Whiteside Page B

fluttering like a dying fish’s gills. He glanced wildly at William and Richard but found only cold silence, comfortless as the North Pole’s icy reaches.
    â€œOf course I’ll keep the family secrets,” he finally stuttered and climbed cautiously onto his feet. He swung his head back and forth, weighing the paths to the doors. Hal stepped in front of one, knife in hand, eyes joyous for any excuse for a fight.
    Townsend recoiled and spun around.
    William glared at him from the other side. If the easterner had an ounce of manhood, he’d draw a weapon—any weapon!—freeing William from his promise to Viola not to kill him. His darling thought their foster daughter needed to keep as much family as possible, given the hard times she sailed into.
    Even so, William brought his dirk into the open fast and smooth so the arrogant beast opposite him would know the penalties.
    Townsend squeaked, stammered, and flung up his hands.
    â€œGood to know we’re finally starting to understand each other.” William bowed slightly, never taking his eyes off the other. “Let me reiterate our bargain one last time. You will never tell St. Arles of Portia’s inheritance from her mother.”
    Because a trust’s arcane rules just might keep the money away from her husband and thus give her a little independence.
    Townsend nodded, a single bright spot of crimson burning on each cheek.
    â€œYou will be an excellent father to Portia, a veritable example to the world, no matter how great the effort.”
    â€œNo,” Townsend gasped. Horror blanched his cheeks even paler. “Surely, you cannot mean I’d have to approve all of her mad starts—”
    â€œOr else her mother’s family, the golden Lindsays, will enjoy increasing your punishment,” purred the old commodore and twirled a hot poker like a sabre.
    â€œYes, yes, of course. My daughter’s welfare will ever be— is always—my greatest concern,” Townsend assured them, his eyes totally fixated on the iron’s red-hot tip.
    â€œAnd Portia will never know any of this,” William reminded him.
    â€œCertainly not!”
    That at least held the ring of truth.
    If only they could protect Portia herself as easily.

Chapter Eight
    S ilence assaulted Portia from all sides, dangerous as trackless sand dunes. Her finger rotated around and around her coffee cup’s rim, every loop as meaningless as a politician’s platitudes. If she set the china down, she might have to look at her wedding bed, here at their hotel.
    She could barely see it in the shadows beyond her dressing table. The gaslight had been dimmed, except for two wall sconces. Not that there was much to see, despite the room’s luxury. It could have been any small bedroom in a good hotel, meant to be occupied for a night and forgotten in the morning. She’d even seen its furniture a hundred times before, albeit in cheaper copies of century-old French originals.
    Tomorrow she’d leave for London aboard one of Britain’s fanciest liners. She wouldn’t even have the comfort of honest American accents for a few extra days, no more than what she’d heard Gareth say in the church. Let alone actually speaking those very unsettling phrases in the note the hotel maid had slipped to her.
    As if she would overturn her sworn oath to her husband now, no matter what the provocation! No, she would never run away from her husband tonight.
    She shuddered slightly and swirled her cup to kick its dregs back into motion. Not much there, truly, but maybe enough to bring a little life into her cheeks. She’d always thought her wedding night would be different: an encouraging grin from Uncle William and a quick hug from Aunt Viola, then a wild rush into Gareth’s arms.
    Don’t think about him now. Don’t think about him ever again.
    Her heart thumped disconsolately against her ribs, probably because she’d been alone